


My Lover and My Controller

by oneforyourfire



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Bondage, Dom/sub, Face-Fucking, M/M, a mild??? foot job
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-25
Updated: 2020-06-25
Packaged: 2021-03-03 18:53:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24910366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oneforyourfire/pseuds/oneforyourfire
Summary: Kyungsoo, his hyung, he’s small. But like this, he towers. Like this, he looms.
Relationships: Do Kyungsoo | D.O/Kim Jongin | Kai
Comments: 10
Kudos: 53





	My Lover and My Controller

**Author's Note:**

> another entry in the "oneforyourfire attempted writing mojo recovery" project
> 
> additional warning maybe for liberal use of the word "slut"

Jongin knows he looks prettiest like this, nude and kneeling on the shag carpet of their bedroom floor. The candlelight helps, too, the slow, deliberate way he blinks up at him. Skin smooth, muscles strained taut, framed in candy red hemp. 

Touch me. Take me. Ruin me. Hyung, hyung, hyung. 

Jongin knows it, owns it, uses it, but he quells—tries to quell—the urge to shudder when Kyungsoo breathes out the compliment. “Pretty,” he tells him, “So, so pretty.” Dragging his thumb over the tremor of Jongin’s lip. But the shudder, it only comes heavier. And Jongin’s fingers—bound, useless, itching to _touch_ —scratch helplessly at his own skin. And the pain, it's grounding as Kyungsoo, testing, taunting, skips over the contours of his throat, the reckless race of his pulse, the pucker of his nipples. Then skips lazy, teasing, taunting, over the red rope at his shoulders, his chest, settles finally on his ribs. The pads of his fingers trace tiny, tiny, dizzying circles, before looping, twisting. 

It’s the barest, barest pressure of a tug. Another test. Another taunt. 

And trembling, tested, taunted, Jongin arches into it, sways with it. The movement has the bindings scraping against his skin just _so_ , excruciatingly rough and tight and perfect, perfect, perfect. Has his cock throbbing, jaw slackening as he stares up at him. Pretty still. And all his. Only ever his. 

Now touch me. Take me. Ruin me. Hyung, hyung, hyung. 

Kyungsoo, his hyung, he’s small. Non-threatening and unassuming. A vocal teacher at a music academy south of the river. Comes home with crayon-written sticker-stamped cards, bundles of red carnations on Teacher’s Day. Home-baked pastries after recitals, concerts. Intimidating at times. A perfectionist. A tough grader. A stickler for the rules. But beloved. But kind. But patient. But safe

But like this, he towers. Like this, he looms. 

Safe still. Patient still. Kind still. But with an undercurrent of something dark, something heavy, something possessive, something perfect, perfect, perfect. And Jongin wants to scrape himself raw and ruined against it, against him, wants, wants, wants—

Between his thighs, Jongin’s cock pulses, pulses, pulses. And he parts his lips around a breathy _hyung_. The incremental increase in tightness, the slight, slight hitch in his breathing, it makes his entire body burn. And he blinks up at him, parts his lips in promise and provocation. 

I'm pretty, and I'm yours. So touch me. Take me. Ruin me. Like you promised. Hyung, hyung, hyung. 

Kyungsoo’s gaze is steady, voice, too, but his fingers tremble at Jongin’s throat, belly heaves with an aborted little hiss. "Already so sloppy for it," he murmurs. Reverent. Fond. "So slutty for it, my pretty Nini."

“It’s because of hyung,” he says. “Made me pretty. Made me slutty. Made me sloppy.” Made me desperate. Made me hard. Make me _more_. 

Kyungsoo hums in heated, heated affirmation. 

And Kyungsoo, he’d been so, so gentle as he’d wound him tight, vulnerable. Reverent, too, kissing every centimeter of bare, quivering skin, murmuring praises as Jongin—loose and pliant and good, good, good, gorgeous, wanting, wanting, wanting—quaked and writhed wantonly in his arms. It had felt like worship, always, always does, the way his fingers wound, looped, tightened, fastened, cared, cared, cared. Tender, painfully, painfully so. Even as he’d forced him to his knees. 

His fingers shift, tighten, sharp, cruel, perfect, and he tugs him forward again. But harder. But more insistent. 

Off balance, trembling, trembling, trembling with want, Jongin stumbles, crashes against the solidity of Kyungsoo’s thigh. His lips chafe against the material, open, wet, and he moans. Nuzzles. Wants. 

His mouth was made to be fucked, Kyungsoo always tells him. Meant to be used up. Meant to be ruined. So good for it. So pretty for it. 

And his lips, bruised and swollen and ruined already, tremble apart when Kyungsoo skims at the corner of his aching, owned, owned, owned mouth. 

Made to be fucked. Made to be used. But it’s just his fingers at first. His thumb. Then his index finger, too. Briefly, briefly middle. They’re thick. Salty and heavy on his tongue. And Jongin suckles them greedily, flutters his eyelashes as he watches himself be watched. Want me, hyung. Use my mouth as it was made to be used, hyung. Take, take, take. 

But Kyungsoo, teasing still, taunting still, he eases, eases, eases his way slowly in, out, hissing out a tight, tight moan the deeper Jongin takes him. And Jongin, teased, taunted, he moans, too, as he runs his tongue over the tips of his fingers, along the webbing between them. Wishes they were thicker, heavier, wishes they throbbed against his tongue, pooled on it bitter and hot. Misses them when they pull free, stumble unsteadily along his throat. 

Kyungsoo's other hand cups his cheekbone, a gentle, gentle skim, warm and calloused and fond and everything he could ever, ever want. But more, too. Give me more, too. 

And greedy, nuzzling, arching higher, higher, Jongin lets his eyelashes kiss against the wrinkled material of Kyungsoo’s shirt. Against his parted lips, the muscles tense, taut, taut, taut. And moaning, dragging deliberate, desperate, desperate, Jongin feels pretty, feels precious, slutty, too, sloppy, too, dizzy with want, too. 

Aborted as it is, the movement shifts the rope. And Jongin loves the exquisite drag of it against his skin, grounding, arresting, safe, beautiful, loves how acutely aware he is of every single trembling muscle in his body, all wanting, wanting, wanting. It thrums through him as Kyungsoo’s thumb kneads into his jawline. 

"Please," he says. Touch me. Take me. Ruin me, he means. "Hyung," he says. 

And Kyungsoo finally, finally, finally slides his zipper down, fumbles—clumsy, clumsy, affected—to tug his cock free. Tugs Jongin forward, too. 

And Kyungsoo’s the only thing keeping him balanced, keeping him tethered. Finally, finally touching him like he'd promised. And it buzzes beneath his skin. 

"Hyung," he says. Waiting, wanting, wanton. 

“Nini,” he responds, tipping his hips forward. An invitation, permission—finally. And oh, the softness of his exhale, the devastation of it. Jongin aches. His knees. His jaw. His cock most of all. 

Jongin, he eases into it with slow, succulent kisses over his cock. Savoring it. His _favorite_ cock, he tells him. His favorite thing. And he drags the flat of his tongue along the length of it then teases at it with swirling flicks, collectiving every bitter, hot, hot drop that leaks out of the pulsing, pulsing tip. He closes his lips over the engorged head, too, suckles appreciatively, slutty, sloppy, pretty, good, murmuring as he does about how much he loves it, how much he wants it, how desperate he is for it. And fuck, Jongin, he means it with every taut, taut, quivering centimeter of his being. Loves the musk and heat of him, the weight, the throb, the way precome dribbles at the tip, heavy and heady, hot, hot, hot on his tongue. Loves the taste of his want. Loves the tiny, tiny tremor of his exhale, too, the tiny, tiny tremor of his fingers in Jongin’s hair, along his jaw. Heat radiates from that point of contact through every single trembling limb, molten and honey-thick.

And above him, Kyungsoo’s breathing splinters, splinters, shatters. 

“Doing so good for me,” he says. “Baby,” he says. “So pretty and slutty,” he says. 

Jongin prickles, burns, burns, burns. 

He itches to touch, too. His belly. His thighs. His ass. His hands. 

But Jongin, bound and pretty and slutty and sloppy, he makes do instead. Swallows and moans and gags and takes and takes and takes. Slackens his jaw. Drags along him slick and sloppy and wet with every eager, eager bob of his head. Loses himself in it. The heady haze of ascent and descent, push and retreat. And drooling helplessly onto the wool of Kyungsoo’s dress pants, scraping his face against the zipper, Jongin sucks sluttier, sloppier, so, so pretty, Jonginnie. So, so good. 

He whines when he's hauled back. Quakes for it. For more. 

But finally, he knows. _Finally_. 

"Nini," Kyungsoo says. And Jongin snaps his fingers. Once. Twice. Shudders at Kyungsoo’s smile. His hand, too. Eyes, too. Words, too. 

"Your mouth, pretty baby," Kyungsoo says, stroking at the seam of it, moaning softly when Jongin sucks again. And Kyungsoo whispers over his cheekbones, at the hollows beneath his eyes, and there’s that tenderness again, that softness brief, brief, exhilarating, grounding. It undoes him. And he whimpers, arches. _Fuck_ , hyung. Expecting it, drunk for it already when Kyungsoo hefts him forward. But just just _just_ shy of close enough. 

Jongin snaps his fingers just once more. Sways. Strains—please, please. Mouth open already. Promise. Provocation. Reminder. Touch Me. Take me. Ruin me. Please, please, _please_. 

"Nini," Kyungsoo rasps, breathless, breathtaking, tilting his hips up, dragging, skimming, teasing, taunting . "My Nini."

 _Yours, yours, yours_. 

And between one breath and the next, he’s slamming forward. 

Jongin chokes. Quakes. Swallows. Moans. Loves it. Loves it. Loves it. 

There’s no hesitation. No teasing in it. Not taunting. No tenderness either. No fondness. No softness. No patience. No kindness. No mercy. 

No, Kyungsoo, towering, looming, touching, taking, ruining, hyung, hyung, hyung, he's cruel, selfish from the start. Using him. Ruining him—for anyone else. 

And rearing back, thrusting forward hard, hard, hard, Kyungsoo takes and takes and takes and gives and gives and gives and fucks and fucks and fucks because he knows that Jongin can take it, knows that he wants it like this, knows he’s the very best at this, his Jonginnie. Slutty and sloppy and so, so pretty, so, so beautiful. Such a good boy. Made to be fucked exactly like this. Used up exactly like this. 

And slutty and sloppy and pretty and good, a thing to be fucked, Jongin takes it and takes it and takes it. Throat raw. Body swaying. Eyes burning. Mouth fucked and fucked and fucked. Greedy for it. For more, more, more. Harder, harder, harder. 

His cock pulses heavy, heavy, heavy with every hot, heaving thrust. Every slick, sloppy, sloppy cruel push into his slack, swollen mouth. Loves the fierceness of it. The helplessness of it. The sharp, arresting twist of fingers in his hair, too. The sting of tears blurring his vision, too. Kyungsoo’s wounded, breathy little moans, too. The scrape of hemp and wool and skin on his lips, chin, throat, too. 

He devolves into pure sensation for it. Just heat and pressure and hitching moans and splintering, splintering need. He melts into the feeling, drowns in it. Until everything is hazy, warm, soft at the edges, until Jongin is pleasure-drunk, cock-drunk, pretty, pretty, pretty. 

Gone, gone, gone by the time Kyungsoo tangles a hand in his hair to yank him back. 

And hazy still, drunk still, gone still, he whines, trembles, begs. Even as anticipation sears through him. 

Pretty, slutty, sloppy, good, good, good, Jongin closes his eyes, opens his mouth. Wants it, needs it, shaking harder, harder, harder with every slick, sloppy, sloppy stroke, clawing at his own elbows all the while, aching, aching to touch.

He bites back a whimper when it happens, Kyungsoo seizing up and rasping out the roughest, roughest groan as he streaks across his face heavy and thick and hot, hot, hot. It slides over the contours of his throat, chest, too, and Jongin twists into it, owned, ruined, marked, pretty, pretty—please. 

He moans helplessly at the clumsy, clumsy graze of Kyungsoo’s palms, his fingertips on his cheekbones, his nose, his mouth, his eyelids. Pretty, pretty, pretty. Smearing it into his goosebumps, quivering skin. 

And pretty, pretty, pretty, desperate, Jongin sucks greedily on his skin for more, whimpering for it. Has had his fill, but wants even more. Every single drop. Wants it always, hyung. Needs it always, hyung. 

And above him, weak-kneed and wrecked, towering still, looming still, Kyungsoo sways, sways, steadies. 

He presses his fingers deeper, exhales shaky, shaky, affected when Jongin swallows, gags. Wants, wants, wants. 

He feels prettiest then, watching himself be watched. Watching himself be wanted and used and ruined and owned. 

Kyungsoo shifts. And then there’s the fleeting touch of his socked foot along the ridge of Jongin’s aching, aching cock. Light, electric. 

Jongin arches needily into the pressure, gasps at the sharp, sharp burst of pleasure-pain. Pure sensation, pure need, heat and electricity and the tacky drag of his shaft against the argyle wool, before shame, humiliation overcome him, too, burn through him, too. Before he registers Kyungsoo’s fond, teasing, testing, taunting, breathy, breathy “Take what you need. My slutty Nini.” 

Jongin grinds harder, twists into it, unsteady and trembling, bumbling, restless, desperate, and please, please, touch me, hyung. Take me, hyung. Ruin me, hyung. Please, please. For real. I’m pretty. I’m good. I’m sloppy. I’m slutty. I’m yours. 

He shakes apart when Kyungsoo drags him up, tugging _hard_. And Jongin stumbles again, crashes again, drags hot and heavy and needy, needy, needy against the pressed cotton of Kyungsoo’s shirt. Stains it, wrinkles it, presses, presses, presses. Kyungsoo’s fingers twist again, but much more indulgent this time, deliberate, intentional, tightening, tightening. That exquisite coarseness scraping and binding and holding him just so, Kyungsoo smiling into his shoulder as Jongin gasps and whimpers and pants and ruts and begs and finally, finally, finally comes and comes and comes, pretty and slutty and sloppy and perfect. Touched. Taken. Ruined. Owned.

**Author's Note:**

> one day i'll write kaisoo penetrative sex  
> one day!!!!!


End file.
